James Rollins - The Eye of God - A Sigma Force Novel

“Looks like a prison,” Kowalski said.

In many ways, it probably was. Gray imagined the inhabitants here were trapped as much by economic reality as by iron bars—with the exception of those rumored to be occupying its highest floors, those levels closest to the sun and fresh breezes. According to Sigma’s intelligence report, it was home to the Duàn zhī Triad.

Gray had traveled here to meet the Triad’s infamous dragonhead.

Back in Macau, Dr. Hwan Pak had sold Gray’s group out to the Triad, luring them into that ambush. Their leader, who wished her face never to be seen, plainly did not take kindly to anyone looking too closely in her direction. It was a gamble for him to come to her doorstep.

But he had no choice.

Seichan had been nabbed by some criminal element. He doubted it was the Duàn zhī Triad. He had spotted European faces—likely local Portuguese—among those who hauled her into the black Cadillac, and the Chinese Triads notoriously disdained Westerners.

So who took her . . . and where?

He had to assume she was still alive. They could have shot her in the streets of Macau, but they hadn’t. It was a slim hope, but he grasped it with both hands.

Gray could think of only one option for information on her kidnappers. In the past, the Duàn zhī Triad had operated out of Macau, so its leader likely knew the major players and still had contacts out there. More important, she also had the manpower and resources Gray would need to mount a rescue—a rescue to save her own daughter.

But can I get her to listen before she kills us?

Gray turned to Kowalski. “Last chance to back out. I can go in alone. Might even be better.”

Gray had made the same offer back at the hotel.

He got the same response.

“Fuck you.” Kowalski headed for the closest door.

Gray joined him, matching him stride for stride. Together, they entered through a set of steel security gates that were open during the day but sealed at night. Faces watched their every step: some with suspicion, others with hatred, most with disinterest.

The gates led to a central courtyard between the three original apartment complexes. The bridges and rickety erections blocked most of the meager daylight overhead, though the steady drizzle found its way down, weeping off every surface. Makeshift shops lined the lower level of the courtyard, including a butcher with plucked geese hanging from hooks, a liquor and tobacco store, even a candy shop full of goods too bright and cheerful for this dreary place.

“Stairs are over there,” Kowalski said.

The only way up appeared to be the open staircases that climbed the sides of each of the buildings. Gray had no idea which of the original towers housed the Duàn zhī Triad, or if it even mattered.

So they set off for the closest and began climbing. The plan was to keep scaling the complex until someone tried to stop them—preferably not someone prone to shooting first and asking questions later.

As they crossed landing after landing, leaving the commercial district below for the residential levels, Gray glanced through several open doors. Inside the apartments was a strange sight. Large wire-mesh cages were stacked floor to ceiling, like rabbit hutches. Men lounged or slept inside them. Clearly it was all they could afford as housing, but the residents did their best to make them tiny homes, decorating them with bamboo liners or privacy screens made of tarpaulin. Even a few televisions glowed. From all of them, cigarette smoke wafted in thick clouds, but it only faintly blocked the smell of human waste.

A fat, brown rat ran down the steps between them.

“Smart rat,” Kowalski said.

Crossing the tenth floor, Gray began to note the glass eyes of closed-circuit television cameras pointed at the stairs.

The handiwork of the Triad.

“This is probably high enough,” Gray finally said. “They’re clearly already watching us.”

Reaching the next landing, Gray moved off the stairs and into the open-air hallway that overlooked the courtyard. He positioned himself in front of one of the CCTV cameras. He carefully and slowly reached to his belt. Using two fingers, he slipped out his Red Star pistol and placed it at his feet. Kowalski performed the same ritual with his AK-47 rifle.

“I wish to speak to Guan-yin, the dragonhead of Duàn zhī !” he called out to the camera and anyone listening nearby.

The response was immediate.

Doors slammed open in front and behind. Four men came at them with bats and machetes.

So much for conversation.

Gray dropped low and kicked the closest man in the knee. As the attacker fell forward, Gray punched him hard in the throat, leaving him writhing and gasping. He retrieved his pistol, while ducking under the swing of a machete as it shaved through his hair. Inside the man’s guard now, Gray trapped the assailant’s arm, swung him around, and got his own arm around the man’s neck.

He placed the muzzle of the pistol into his captive’s ear.

Behind Gray, Kowalski had coldcocked the first of his two assailants, snatching the steel bat out of the man’s limp fingers as he fell. In a roundhouse swing, he struck the second in the shoulder. His machete clattered to the ground.

Kowalski kept his bat pointed, warning, as the man stumbled back in pain, cradling his bruised arm.

Gray turned his attention to the camera.

“I only wish to talk!” he called out.

Proving this, he let his captive go and pushed him away. Again, Gray bent down and placed his pistol on the floor. He lifted his hands high, showing his palms to the camera.

He hoped this sudden attack had been a test.

He waited, feeling a trickle of sweat run down his back. A hush seemed to have fallen over the entire complex. Even the chatter of televisions and echoing music was subdued.

Suddenly Kowalski bellowed behind him. “Don’t any of you speak goddamned English?”

A door opened at the end of the hall.

“I do.”

A figure stepped out of the shadows and into the hallway. He was a tall man, with his white hair pulled back in a knot of a ponytail. Though in his sixties, he moved with a silky power in each step. He carried a long, curved sword in one hand, an ancient Chinese Dao saber. His other palm rested on the butt of a holstered SIG Sauer.

“What do you wish to tell our esteemed dragonhead?” he asked.

Gray knew the wrong answer would get them killed.

“Tell her I carry a message concerning Mai Phuong Ly’s daughter.”

From the swordsman’s blank expression, the name meant nothing to him. As answer, he simply turned and walked calmly back into the shadows.

Again they were left to wait. One of the guards barked in Cantonese and forced Gray and Kowalski to retreat a few steps, so another could grab their weapons.

“This gets better and better,” Kowalski said.

The tension stretched to the tautness of a piano wire.

Finally, the swordsman returned, stepping again out of the shadowy doorway to confront them.

“With graciousness, she has agreed to see you,” he said.

Gray let the knot between his shoulders relax slightly.

“But if she doesn’t like what she hears,” the swordsman warned, “her face will be the last thing you ever see.”

Gray didn’t doubt that.

8:44 A.M.

Seichan woke to darkness.

She remained motionless, a survival instinct going back to her feral years on the streets of Bangkok and Phnom Penh. She waited for her muzzy-headedness to clear. Memory slowly seeped out of a black well. She’d been grabbed, drugged, and blindfolded. From the bite of restraints, her wrists and ankles must also be bound. She still wore the blindfold, but enough light seeped through the edges to tell it was day.